


non-standard

by squilf



Category: Alien Quadrilogy (Movies), Alien Series
Genre: Angst, Bishop’s love language is acts of service, F/M, Hicks’ A+ wingman skills, I decided that Bishop is a Virgo, M/M, Other, Pining, Reader-Insert, Robot Feels, Robot/Human Relationships, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27560989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squilf/pseuds/squilf
Summary: Everyone has a soul mark. But when you finally get yours, it’s just a string of numbers and letters on the sole of your foot. And now you’re stationed on theUSS Sulaco, and you have your suspicions about the synthetic on board.Bishop x Reader (of any gender).
Relationships: Lance Bishop/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	non-standard

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have to say a really big thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos and commented on my Bishop x Reader fics. It’s awesome to discover that the artificial person of my heart has so many fans. I’m still working through your Bishop prompts, which are so inspiring and creative.
> 
> This fic is based on a prompt from [jellaloverlandelric1972](https://jellaloverlandelric1972.tumblr.com/): _I do have a prompt/one-shot ask, Lance Bishop/Reader(oc) it's a bit of a cliche, but I'm an old romantic. But in essence it's a soul mate au, but you(oc) don't have a mark/or any 'normal' way of identifying your soul mate instead you have a number, like a very old faded tattoo on the bottom of your heel._
> 
> I thought it was very cute and romantic prompt, and I hope you enjoy what I’ve written!

“Welcome aboard, Officer,” says Sergeant Apone, cigar between his teeth.

You’re an engineer, not a marine. The USS _Sulaco_ is old and battle-worn, and Weyland-Yutani would rather bring you aboard than dock the ship and have it out of action for months getting repairs. You’re a cost-cutting exercise. But the money is good, and you like the anonymity of temporary contracts. You go from ship to ship, charting a haphazard and lonely course among the stars.

“Sergeant,” you say, nodding at Apone.

And then a synthetic walks over to you, and you feel your blood run cold.

“Hello,” he says, “I’m Executive Officer Lance Bishop.”

He holds out a hand for you to shake. You don’t take it.

“No one told me there’d be a synthetic,” you tell Apone.

“I prefer the term ‘artificial person’,” Bishop says, “And I am standard issue for a unit of this size.”

“Then you can issue yourself somewhere you’re wanted,” you say.

Apone chuckles and winks at Bishop.

“Got a feisty one there.”

* * *

You lived a long time without a soul mark. It didn’t bother you at first. A mark only appears when your soulmate is born. Some people are born with them. Others have to wait. As you grow up, more and more children your age get their marks. By your teens, you’re pretty much the only one without.

Everyone else has a soulmate. Even if they haven’t already met them, they have the _promise_ of someone. The hope that one day, they’ll be whole. It makes you sad. And then it makes you angry. And then you try not to think about it at all.

You’ve nearly forgotten about it – or at least, buried it so deep inside you it doesn’t hurt so much anymore – when you wake up in the middle of the night with a searing pain on the sole of your left foot. The skin’s sore and swollen, but in the half-light of a distant sun, you can make out a string of numbers and letters. You’ve longed for and hated the soulmate that isn’t there, the half that’s missing from you. Their absence has consumed so much of your life. And now, here’s proof of their existence.

So yes, you don’t like synthetics. But that’s only because one ruined your life.

* * *

Executive Officer Lance Bishop, unfortunately, doesn’t seem to have got that particular memo. No matter how rude you are, he’s gentle, kind, patient – and hard to avoid.

He’s there in the canteen at mealtimes, and he doesn’t even _eat_.

“Cornbread?” he asks, offering you a roll for what feels like the umpteenth time.

“You know what?” you say, “Just assume I don’t want the cornbread. If I want the cornbread, I will go out of my way to tell you.”

* * *

He’s there when you’re struggling to get your helmet on for a training drill.

“Can I…?” Bishop asks.

You jerk away.

“Don’t touch me.”

He steps back, holding his hands up, as though you’re a wild animal.

“I won’t, without your express consent.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” you say.

Bishop doesn’t look offended.

“You just look like you could do with some help.”

“I don’t _need_ your help,” you say.

Of course, that’s when the clip of your helmet strap finally snaps shut, catching your finger in the process. You swear, shaking your hand furiously.

“Shut up,” you mutter, without any real bite.

* * *

He’s there when you’re in the main hold, working on one of the Power Loaders that’s been playing up. (He’s trying, somewhat successfully, to help you and you’re trying, somewhat successfully, to ignore him.)

“I can do this myself,” you tell him when he comes over, not looking away from what you’re doing.

“I’d feel bad just watching.”

You know it’s a joke – you even huff out a sarcastic laugh – but you blush a little all the same. You’re down to your vest, the arms of your jumpsuit tied around your waist. It’s hot work, and you didn’t think anyone was going to see you do it. You feel a little self-conscious.

“No, not quite a smile,” Bishop says, studying your face, “I’ve never seen you smile.”

“You’ve never given me anything to smile about,” you say.

Bishop passes you a spanner. Your hands don’t touch when you take it.

“Challenge accepted,” he says.

* * *

He’s not _always_ there in the evenings, as things are winding down for the night – and when he isn’t, you seem to spend a lot of the time wondering if he’s going to show up. But tonight he is, and you have to put up with his company if you want any of the contraband whisky Hudson’s managed to produce.

It’s not too bad, really, but then Vasquez and Drake turn in for the night. As registered soulmates, they’re stationed together. Their marks match: she has a duck on her left forearm, him, a crow on his right. When they fight side by side, their marks align, as though they’re fighting with them.

“Man, I dunno if I believe in all that soulmate shit,” Hudson says after they leave, “Seems awful convenient to me.”

“Probably seems awful _inconvenient_ to the poor soul stuck with you,” Hicks says.

“I dunno who she is, but I was born with my mark,” Hudson says, raising his eyebrows, “So you see a hot mama, she could be mine.”

“Good luck finding her round here,” Hicks says.

“The retirement homes aren’t safe,” you say.

Hicks laughs. You’ve seen his mark – a daffodil, entwined around a crescent moon. It’s on his left shoulder, but you can just see it when his sleeve rides up.

“How ‘bout you?” Hudson asks you.

You lean back in your chair, your arm slung over the back, and your elbow brushes against Bishop, who is, inexplicably, sitting next to you. You’ve had enough to drink to tell the truth. Part of it, at least.

“I only got my mark a few years ago,” you say.

“Got time to kill, then,” Hudson comments.

“It’s a fascinating phenomenon,” Bishop says, “An evolutionary adaptation to commercial space travel. And it happened within around a hundred years, only four generations.”

“Yeah, you _would_ have a scientific explanation for it,” Hudson says.

“You are talking to a synthetic,” Bishop points out, adding, “We don’t have marks, of course.”

“Do you ever… feel alone?” you ask.

“Thousands of Bishop models have been commissioned. The known universe is full of people just like me.”

“And the universe is better for it,” Hicks says, raising a glass.

“God, I don’t know what I’d do with more than one of you,” you tell Bishop, taking another swig of your drink.

“I’m sure you’d think of something,” Hudson says.

You nearly choke on your whisky.

* * *

Mercifully, the rest of you head back to your bunks not long after that. In spite of the alcohol, you can’t get to sleep. You keep thinking about what Bishop said. He’s a Hyperdyne Systems Model 341-B, one of literally thousands. He probably isn’t your soulmate. Very probably. But you’re going to be on this ship for months yet. You need to know for sure, and then you can put it out of your mind.

It won’t be too hard to check his serial number. It’ll be printed on his key pass – which might be hard to steal – and, of course, his foot – which might be hard to look at. Actually, you’re pretty sure Bishop would let you if you asked, but you don’t really want to explain why. No, the easiest option is just to access his personnel file on the ship’s computer. It’s not privileged information.

You ought to do it some other time, but now the thought’s in your mind you can’t shake it. Everyone’s asleep, anyway. You won’t get caught. You stumble out of bed and pad down the corridor, to the navigation room. It’s quiet in there and dark, lit by only a few blinking lights and the stars outside the window. You scroll through the crew list on the monitor and bring up Bishop’s file. And there it is, in green illuminated text on the screen.

_Executive Officer L. Bishop_

_Date of manufacture: 27 August 2171_

_Serial number: A17/TQ2.0.35100E2_

You read it over and over again, double checking, triple checking it. It can’t be. It _can’t_ be. But it is. Bishop’s serial number is on the sole of your foot. And it appeared there on the day he was made.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

You jump. Bishop’s behind you – he must have just come into the room. At least, you hope he has. You hope he hasn’t seen what’s on the screen.

“I can provide more information about my manufacture and maintenance,” he says, “There’s a full manual available on the mainframe, too.”

You feel yourself blushing. This was such a stupid idea. Of course the bloody _robot_ isn’t asleep.

“No,” you say, standing up awkwardly, “There’s nothing more I need to know about you.”

“There’s something I want to know about _you_ ,” Bishop says.

“I don’t come with a manual,” you say.

“I don’t mind asking. Why do you hate me?”

You almost feel sorry for him. You almost want to tell him. _Because you’re my soulmate. Because you’re a synthetic. Because I think I could fall in love with you, anyway._

“Bishop,” you say, and your voice is quieter than you mean it to be, “I don’t.”

* * *

“Good morning,” Hicks says the next day, looking far too smug for your liking, “Wanna know what I’ve been up to?”

“I live for nothing else,” you say, half-heartedly trying to yank out some faulty wiring in one of the hypersleep chambers.

You have a headache, and you’re not really in the mood for talking – not after what happened last night.

“I’ve been telling Bishop that sometimes people act like they don’t like you because they actually really do,” Hicks says.

“What are you going to tell him next?” you ask, “How babies are made?”

“No, I think he’d want you to cover that one yourself.”

Hicks grins. You try your best to look disgusted.

“I fix machines. I’m not about to… _canoodle_ with one.”

“Not even if that machine has big blue eyes?”

“Hazel,” you correct him, automatically.

Hicks raises his eyebrows with a certain smugness.

“That’s not,” you stammer, “I just… notice things.”

Hicks shuts his eyes.

“So what colour are mine?”

“Shut up,” you say.

Hicks laughs.

“You wanna know what I think?” he says.

“No, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“I think you’ve spent a lot of time being hung up on someone you may or may not meet in twenty years. Maybe you shouldn’t ignore someone who’s hung up on you now.”

You look down. He’s right. Your whole life, you’ve been pining for someone who might not even come into your life. But, somehow, he has. And, well. You’ve maybe not dealt with it all that well. Hicks claps you on the shoulder.

“Just don’t break his heart.”

* * *

So maybe you listen to Hicks. Maybe he’s got a point. And maybe you find it hard to open up to people anyway.

Bishop has tried to be kind to you. You just start trying to let him.

* * *

The next time you’re in the canteen, Bishop offers the cornbread to everyone but you. He’s only doing what you asked, and that means he’s paid attention to you, but still – you want him to look at you.

“Bishop, can I have some cornbread?” you ask.

“Oh,” he says, “Yes.”

He holds the plate out to you.

“Thank you,” you say, and take a roll, your eyes not leaving his.

“Jesus Christ, get a _room_ ,” Hudson mutters.

* * *

The next time there’s a drill, you start putting your helmet on – and then you stop.

“Can you…?” you ask Bishop, “You, uh, you can touch me.”

You hold the straps out in front of you and he fastens them.

“Thanks,” you say.

He smiles. You don’t smile back.

* * *

The next time you’re working in the main hold, you stop Bishop when he walks past.

“Hey,” you say, “I’m still trying to get that Power Loader back online. Could you… help?”

“Oh,” Bishop says, “Isn’t Corporal Hicks meant to be working on that today?”

You look over at Hicks, who is currently asleep underneath a tank – despite the considerable background noise that is Hudson moving around in the other Power Loader and whistling loudly to himself.

“Can’t,” Hicks says, not even opening his eyes, “Busy.”

You look at Bishop imploringly.

“Of course,” he says.

“Thank you.”

You sit by the Power Loader together, Bishop next to your tools, just out of arms’ reach.

“I’ll admit I don’t really know much about these,” he says, as you get to work.

“Don’t you have a similar gyrostabilisation system?” you say.

“You’ve been reading my manual.”

You shrug.

“I needed some bedtime reading.”

“I meant what I said. I _can_ provide more information about my systems. I’m happy to.”

“Yeah, me too,” you say, “Not that I… have systems. Anatomy?”

You decide to stop talking about this, because you’ve just offered to tell Bishop more about your anatomy, and, well.

“Er, can you give me the small wrench?” you ask.

Bishop hands it to you, his fingers brushing against yours.

“You can always come by the lab,” he says, “It’s usually pretty quiet for the evening shift. It’s… usually pretty quiet for every shift, really.”

Up until now, you’ve been vaguely aware of Hudson – but this is the moment when he makes his presence acutely known, by crashing his Power Loader into the inactive one you are currently underneath. You barely have time to flinch before Bishop pushes you to the floor and covers your body with his. And then you’re trapped under the Power Loader, Bishop’s arms a protective cage around you, your heart beating wildly.

“Don’t move,” Bishop says.

“Oh shit!” Hudson cries, “Are you guys okay?”

“What does it _look_ like, Hudson?” you yell.

“Kinda like I’ve caught you in a compromising position, to be honest.”

“Hudson,” Bishop shouts, clearly much calmer than you are, “You need to stabilise the Power Loader before we can attempt to escape.”

“Yeah,” Hudson says, “Yeah, good plan. Don’t worry, I got this.”

“Are you alright?” Bishop asks you, his voice low.

“Oh, fine,” you say, “I just really hope that’s a wrench in your pocket.”

“Cracking jokes? Things must be bad.”

“We might be crushed to death, and Private Hudson is coming to our rescue. Any last requests?”

“I’d ask for that smile, if I could see it.”

There’s a concerning amount of noise – the crunch of metal on metal, and the pneumatic hiss of the Power Loader’s limbs.

“Hey guys!” Hudson yells, “I reckon this probably isn’t gonna fall, so you can get out of there and resume the same position somewhere else.”

“You first,” Bishop says.

There’s hardly any room for you to move, and you’re flat on your back. You pull your knees up and arch your back and shuffle down, pushing yourself on your heels and shoulders and hands. There’s only inches between you and Bishop, and even when you turn your head to one side, your face brushes against his chest and then his stomach.

“Nearly there,” Bishop says.

“Really bad time for you to say that,” you say.

Your stomach muscles are aching and you’re covered in a sheen of sweat, but you pull yourself out.

“Okay, now you,” you say, patting Bishop’s foot.

He makes it out faster than you did, sliding along the floor on his stomach. About two seconds later, the Power Loader crumples completely to the floor. Somehow, Bishop grabs you, shielding you from the flailing limbs, his hand on the back of your head.

“Sorry,” Hudson says.

“We could have been under that!” you yell, scrambling out of Bishop’s arms and to your feet.

“Thank you Hudson, for saving me and my robot boyfriend,” Hudson says.

“This was _your_ fault. So yes, thank you for endangering and then saving our lives.”

“Whatever,” Hudson says, wandering off.

You fold your arms, still catching your breath.

“You should get to med bay,” Bishop says, “I think you only have minor injuries, but someone should take a look at you.”

“Maybe…” you begin, but you don’t get to finish your sentence, because Hicks, who has of course managed to sleep through all of this, suddenly yawns and stretches.

He blinks up at you and Bishop, bleary-eyed. You must both look a state, dirty and ruffled and a little bloody.

“Huh,” Hicks says, looking you both over, “That went better than I expected.”

* * *

That night, you visit the lab.

“Hi,” you say, poking your head round the door, “Are you busy?”

Bishop looks up from his microscope.

“Come in.”

You shut the door behind you and walk in, pulling yourself up onto the counter next to him.

“How are you?” Bishop asks.

“Got off with a few scratches,” you say, “Thanks to you.”

“It was just my programming.”

“I’m still grateful.”

You take a breath. You didn’t come here to thank Bishop for saving you. You came because you could have died today, without him knowing who you really are. You came because it made you realise you don’t want to leave this ship without him knowing.

“Can I show you something?” you ask.

“Of course.”

You unlace your left boot and peel off your sock, holding up your foot, sole first. Bishop frowns and studies it. You can see him scanning the mark, silently reading the sequence of numbers.

“It’s my serial number,” Bishop says.

“It’s my soul mark,” you say.

He looks up at you.

“Then… there must be a human with the same mark.”

“Human soul marks aren’t usually serial numbers,” you say, “And this one appeared on the date of your manufacture.”

“I have a soulmate?” Bishop says, his voice hushed.

“Yes,” you say, “You do.”

“I… wasn’t aware I had a soul. How could I have been made with a soul?”

“I don’t know.”

Bishop stands up, taking a few hurried strides away from you.

“This could have serious implications for the rights of artificial people. If we can be the soulmates of organic people, then we must be considered their equals.”

“Or you’re just an outlier,” you say, “I don’t think this has ever happened before.”

Bishop turns back to face you.

“It’s never been recorded, as far as I know. But advances in synthetic technology are being made all the time. We have to speak to Michael Bishop and Weyland-Yutani.”

You shake your head.

“Bishop, if this gets found out, I don’t know what will happen to you. You’re their _property_.”

“And I will be forever, unless something changes.”

“Great,” you say, “I’m just your ticket out of servitude.”

“Don’t you want a soulmate who’s free to be with you?”

The anger that’s been bubbling up inside of you threatens to boil over.

“No, I don’t want _any_ of this,” you say, “You don’t understand. This is all new to you, but not to me. This is my whole life. Up until three years ago, I thought I was alone. And I didn’t want to be.”

Bishop softens. He reaches out a hand towards you, tentative, as if he wants to touch you but isn’t sure if you want it too.

“You don’t have to be alone now,” he says.

You don’t take his hand, don’t give him permission to touch.

“I would rather be alone than with you,” you say.

“Why tell me I’m your soulmate if you’re not even going to give me a chance?” Bishop says.

He looks _sad_ , and it’s making you feel guilty even when this isn’t your fault. You didn’t choose this. You’d never choose this.

“See, this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you,” you groan.

“Because I’d tell you you’re being unreasonable?”

“Unreasonable?” you repeat angrily, “Is it _unreasonable_ to want a soulmate who can love me?”

“Who says you don’t?”

“I’ve read your manual. You replicate emotions, you don’t experience them.”

“It’s starting to look like quite a few things aren’t in that manual.”

“It certainly left out how annoying you can be,” you mutter.

“You’re very difficult,” Bishop says, but it’s fond, “Maybe only someone synthetic could put up with you. We do have behavioural inhibitors.”

You scoff.

“I don’t believe _anything_ is inhibited about your behaviour.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Really?” you say, “So, what would you do, if you could choose? If you could do anything?”

“This,” Bishop says, and kisses you.

It takes you by surprise but it’s tender. You lean into it, your eyes fluttering shut, your hands blindly reaching forwards to touch Bishop anywhere you can. And then he leans his forehead against yours, and his hand closes over your bare foot, over the skin that marks you as his.

“You really wanted that?” you breathe.

“I wanted it when I _met_ you,” Bishop says, “Even though you made it very clear you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

Here in his arms, you figure it’s finally time to tell the truth. To him, and to yourself.

“I didn’t know it was you at first,” you say, “Just that it might be. I wanted it to be you. But when I knew that it _was_ , I was just so scared that I’d mess it up. That you’d reject me.”

“So you’d rather push me away before I got the chance?” Bishop asks.

“I have issues,” you admit, “At least some of them are your fault.”

Bishop leans closer, brushing his nose against yours.

“I’ll try to make it up to you.”

You lean the next couple of centimetres in and kiss him. He lets you, his fingers stroking your soul mark all the while.

“You once asked if I ever feel alone,” he says, eventually, “I never told you that I do. Knowing that there are more like me has never changed that. I’m different to everyone I’ve ever met. I’m different to _you_. But you still feel like home.”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face.

“There,” Bishop says, and he cups your face in his hands, “That was worth waiting for.”

“Yes,” you say, looking back at your soulmate, the one you were always meant to find, “I think it was.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, I’d love it if you left a comment! You can even [send me an ask](https://squilf.tumblr.com/ask) with your own prompt, if you like. I feel like I’m establishing myself as AO3’s foremost (or only) Bishop x reader writer…


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